It was close on to noon when finally, with a shout, they hurried forward and dropped their packs close to where the ice-cold spring flowed.
“Queer how heavy those old packs do get the longer you carry them,” observed George, as he waited for his turn to lie down and drink his fill of the spring water.
“You’re a suspicious sort of fellow, George,” declared Felix; “I’ve seen you turn around as quick as a flash, just as if you thought some other scout might be hanging his pack on to yours, so as to make you carry double.”
George turned redder than he had already become under the force of the sun; but he did not deny the accusation.
It was decided not to light a fire at noon. They could eat a cold lunch and wash it down with water.
“We’ll keep our fire for this evening,” said Mr. Witherspoon; “you know it is generally quite a ceremony—the starting of the first campfire when scouts go off on a long trip.”
Waiting until the sun had started well on his way down the heavens, and there had arisen a little breeze that made it more bearable, the scout master finally had Felix sound his fish horn for the signal to “fall in.”
Some of the boys did not show quite as much animation as on that other occasion. They were not accustomed to walking for hours, and would have to get used to it through experience.
An hour later they were straggling along, some of them on the other side of a wire fence that separated the road from the woods, as there seemed to be a chance of making interesting discoveries there.
“Look at that red squirrel hanging head down to the bark on the trunk of that tree!” exclaimed Billy Button; “I never noticed just how they did that stunt before.”